


Red Sky in Morning

by nox_candida



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Community: sherlockbbc_fic, First Meetings, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-22
Updated: 2011-05-22
Packaged: 2017-10-19 16:45:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nox_candida/pseuds/nox_candida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s this tension that crackles in the air, thick and heavy and electric—clouds gathering on the horizon before a storm, lightning flashing in the distance—when he sees Doctor John Watson for the very first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Sky in Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/9100.html?thread=43493772#t43493772) on the [Sherlock kinkmeme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/).

There’s this tension that crackles in the air, thick and heavy and _electric_ —clouds gathering on the horizon before a storm, lightning flashing in the distance—when he sees Doctor John Watson for the very first time.

It’s so sudden, so unexpected, that at first he thinks that maybe it’s just static electricity—a particularly strong discharge that’s struck his entire body—when he feels the barest hint of warm, calloused fingers brush against his.

But...no. It’s something else, which he has yet to fully deduce because he’s only experienced it one other time in his life and it was nothing like _this_. That was more of a calm drizzle, the remnants of an autumn rain that lasts for days and settles into skin and hair and clothes slowly, subtly.

This is...this is a summer storm, the kind that comes out of the blue—literally, because when he’d woken that day, the sky had been clear as a bell and there hadn’t been any hint of change on the horizon, none at all—a warm deluge that pounds heavily into the ground and leaves behind it the smell of life, of wet earth and wet concrete and a heat that clings to the curls of his hair.

And he tells himself that it’s the sudden shock of being awash in unexpected feelings—his skin buzzing ~~pleasantly~~ unpleasantly, his stomach twisting, his heart clenching—that causes him to hold his chin up and deduce the man’s life story. Not everything—no, of course not, because there has to be some mystery left—but enough, a fishing line left in a lake, the hook floating just under the surface.

He gives his name as he leaves the room. And he winks.

It’s because of the surprise, is all.

**

He doesn’t need a flatmate, not _really_ , but having help with the rent while Victor’s away for ~~too~~ so long on business is a plus. It’d been Victor’s idea, in fact, as he hadn’t wanted to concern himself with such a tedious matter. But Victor had insisted.

 _“We may as well sublet while I’m gone, you know,” Victor says one evening while he’s busy experimenting on the ears that he’d sweet-talked out of that woman who works in the morgue at Bart’s._

 _“Why?” he asks, distractedly, because it’s not **important**._

 _“You’ll be bored with only the skull and Mrs Hudson to talk to.”_

 _He wrinkles his nose. “I don’t want another flatmate.”_

 _Victor laughs—the melodious sound of it that settles over him like the first snow of winter, gentle and powdery and magnificent—and ruffles his hair, kisses the back of his neck fondly. “That may be, love, but you know I’m right. Besides, if there’s no one here to look after you, you’ll neglect yourself. You’re always doing that.”_

 _He grunts, but he already knows he’s going to give in. Victor’s never asked for much, and he supposes it’s worthwhile to have someone clean the flat and make dinner. Those things are Victor’s domain and he’s had more than enough lectures about surviving on takeaway to last him a lifetime._

 _“Sherlock...”_

 _He rolls his eyes and sighs, but he doesn’t honestly mind that much. “Very well. Pick someone out.”_

 _He feels Victor’s arms close around his waist, feels those familiar hands rub his stomach and it makes him think of curling in front of a fire—not too close where it’s hot, but far enough away that it’s warm and comfortable on one side of his body and starting to chill on the other. “I will if I can find someone before I leave. If not, it’ll be up to you.”_

 _He makes a face—finding a temporary flatmate is so **dull**._

 _“It won’t be so bad,” Victor murmurs into his ear, and he relaxes back into his husband’s arms and closes his eyes._

 _“Yes, it will,” he says stubbornly._

 _Victor laughs and squeezes him a bit before releasing him. “No, it won’t, love. It’ll probably be someone who will do their own thing and leave you alone.”_

 _“It better be,” he says._

He does mean that. Or did. At the time.

The cab comes to a stop in front of the flat and he climbs out to greet his potential ~~temporary~~ flatmate.

When their hands meet he swears he sees sparks fly and he can’t help how his body shivers a bit.

He ignores the way there are clouds gathering on the horizon, ignores the heat he can feel seeping into his bones. It’s not the right time of year for that.

**

“You have a girlfriend?”

He wants to laugh, but he settles for saying, wryly, “Girls...not really my area.”

There’s a fluttering in his chest, because it’s unexpected this unassuming man who nonetheless seems to light up the room in brief, sharp bursts is engaging him in this conversation.

“Oh,” John says, looking momentarily confused before his face clears and he leans forward to ask, “So, do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way,” he hastily adds.

“I know it’s fine,” he answers ~~teasingly~~ quickly, which is not at all what he meant to say.

“So you have a boyfriend?” John asks him.

He feels prickles on his skin, warning drops, brief pings of water before the deluge starts. He says, “No,” because it’s true. It’s not the whole story, and the wiggle room sets his heart racing, like the time he climbed into a tree as a child to have a better view of the clouds swirling, dark and foreboding, and thrilling. It’s on the tip of his tongue, now, to set the record straight, and he should, because he’s _married_ , and he can see the interest shimmering in John Watson’s eyes, brief flashes of something electric and exciting and unknown. A storm of epic proportions.

John leaves him the perfect opening, too. "Oh, okay. So you're unattatched then. Just like me. Fine, good."

He finds himself at a crossroads; full-disclosure is the safe way, the easy path. It’s Mummy calling him in before he can get hurt, before the world explodes around him and he’s in danger of dying. The other path is the one he’s been treading this whole time, a dark and dangerous and infinitely more interesting one.

He wants to see what a storm is like close up, how it rents the air apart and shatters and destroys to put it all back together.

But he pulls back at the last minute when he thinks of warmth in winter, of cozy fireplaces and comfort.

The storm is still fascinating, even if there’s a window and a wall between him and it.

**

“That was ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

“And you invaded Afghanistan,” he says, feeling giggles well up from somewhere inside.

John giggles—he _giggles_ —in little huffs, distant thunder on the horizon.

He can’t stop giggling, because those rolls of thunder—a warning to everyone else—is as sweet as Mendelssohn in E Minor to his ears: pure, beautiful, and touching some place inside of him that very little in this world reaches.

**

His chest is heaving and blood is pounding thunderously in his ears as he stares down at the murderous cabbie, red blood seeping out onto the floor as he demands a name.

So close to death, so _close_ , and there’s something magical about it, like standing near the top of a hill when lightning strikes. The air is tingling around him, and that feeling doesn’t go away when he looks across the police line and sees John Watson. His new flatmate.

**

When he watches the sunrise the next morning, the air still vibrates with the electricity of the night before.

The horizon is blood red, and some silly piece of trivia that he inexplicably hasn’t deleted bobs up to the front of his mind.

 _Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight,  
Red sky in morning, shepherd’s warning._

He dismisses it a moment later. It’s an old wives’ tale and absolute rubbish. It really should have been deleted years ago.

**

One time, he and Victor watched a documentary about storm chasers in America. It’d been interesting, after a fashion. He’d never seen storms quite like that before, the sheer size and force of them, beautiful in a raw, dangerous way.

He’d leaned against Victor lazily, ignoring the weather outside in favour of relishing the safety of the domestic scene. Once the programme was over, he’d turned away from the telly and had moved onto other things, giving very little thought to it afterwards.

The documentary comes back to him one night not long after his flatmate moved in. They’ve been chasing a serial killer through London and—for once—John is ahead of him, Sherlock following behind, and it flashes though his mind in a moment, bright white light that overwhelms him. In the next instant, he thinks about how John is like those tornadoes—unexpected, unpredictable, sometimes small and sometimes so large and with the power to inspire and terrify. And he’s chasing after it, in spite of the danger, in spite of every instinct telling him to run indoors and find a safe place to ride it out.

He wonders what it would be like to be caught in the eye, to be tossed around and be inside it, to see something that no other person has seen directly.

When they catch the criminal, they’re both panting and John looks at him, eyes such a dark blue that they look like cumulonimbus clouds. Bright sparks flicker briefly and he feels like he could drown in those eyes, that the sheets of rain will consume him.

He doesn’t really want to be safe from that.

**

And maybe the storm will break over him, maybe he’ll race up to the highest point he can find—away from the comfort and safety indoors, out into the wild, untamed danger—and maybe he’ll spread his arms wide to welcome it.

But then again, maybe he won’t. Storms like this are so brief, after all. Whole lives can be ruined in the blink of an eye. Sometimes, though, they’re not. Sometimes there’s still a home to return to, still safety and comfort and the distant warmth of a cheery fire.

Life is unpredictable like that.


End file.
